


Many Happy Returns

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Cavity-inducing fluff with a tiny bit of angst, Gratuitous explicit sexing in various places, Happy Birthday Monto!, Hormonal teenagers in a sexual situation, M/M, Pazzolivo being the OTP-est OTP to have ever OTP-ed, Unprotected penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen years together, told through five birthdays that all changed something and made them who they are today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Monto’s birthday – now if you’ll excuse me while I weep because my pretty little baby is 30 already. ;___;

On his 16th birthday, Riccardo experiences his first kiss.  
  
He had wanted to have a proper party, invite all his friends from school and from his team over. But his birthday is on a weekday and he has football practice until 6 pm, which means having a party is out of question.  
  
Instead, his mother picks him and Giampaolo up after the practice and drives them to a nice restaurant in Caravaggio, where they have dinner with his whole extended family.  
  
Afterwards, they go home and Riccardo and Giampaolo lock themselves into Riccardo’s room, change into their pyjamas, and proceed to an all-night-long video game marathon.  
  
It is somewhere between Riccardo kicking Giampaolo’s ass on  _FIFA 2001_  and them failing at team work miserably on  _Tekken Tag Tournament_ that Riccardo realizes Giampaolo is staring at him funnily.  
  
“What’re you looking at? Do I have something on my face?” he asks self-consciously, wiping a hand over his face in case his guess is right.  
  
“No, it’s nothing,” Giampaolo answers quickly, averting his eyes from Riccardo, a bright blush rising on his cheeks – it is weird, Giampaolo never blushes – “I just thought, just for a moment, that I wanted to kiss you.”  
  
Now it is Riccardo’s turn to flush bright red, the mere idea of Giampaolo kissing him making his heart jump into his throat.  
  
It is not like he has never thought about it before. There have been these small moments before, ever since Giampaolo first joined Atalanta a couple years back, when Riccardo has wondered what it would be like, to hold Giampaolo’s hand or even to kiss him.  
  
There have been the embarrassing dreams, too, the ones that have forced him to get up in the middle of the night to change his sheets in secret from his mother.  
  
“Why don’t you?” Riccardo asks the question carefully, almost too quiet for Giampaolo to hear his words. He is not sure what would happen if Giampaolo actually did it, but his chest still fills up with giddy anticipation when Giampaolo meets his eyes hesitantly.  
  
Giampaolo leans in too fast, and their foreheads knock together, followed by their noses bumping into each other, before he finally finds Riccardo’s lips.  
  
It is clumsy and hurried, not at all like in the romantic movies they sometimes watch when they are sure no one else is in the house, but at the same time it is new and exciting and Riccardo cannot stop the small needy sounds escaping his lips into the kiss.  
  
After a while, Giampaolo pushes Riccardo down on his bed where they have been sitting all along, his hand sliding tentatively down Riccardo’s side, growing a bit bolder with the kiss as he gains more confidence.  
  
Riccardo can feel Giampaolo’s erection pressed against his thigh and he lets out a startled whimper against Giampaolo’s lips, his eyes snapping open as they break the kiss, Giampaolo’s dark eyes meeting his right away.  
  
“Sorry,” Giampaolo says immediately, sitting up and putting a safe distance between them, his blush returning twice as bright as it was before, “You’re just so hot, I can’t handle myself when I’m with you.”  
  
He takes a pillow and places it into his lap to hide the obvious bulge in his pyjama bottoms, while Riccardo sits up and pulls his legs up against his chest to do exactly the same.  
  
“Don’t be. Sorry, I mean. It’s just a bit scary, when ten minutes ago I didn’t even know you liked me…” Riccardo bites his lip hesitantly, glancing towards Giampaolo uncertainly, “You  _do_  like me, don’t you?”  
  
“What kind of a question is that? Of course I like you!” Giampaolo exclaims, looking almost hurt that Riccardo would even suggest such a thing, “I’ve liked you since I first saw you, you idiot.”  
  
Riccardo has to bite back a relieved laugh, and he smiles at Giampaolo a bit more certainly this time as he answers, “I like you too. And I liked kissing you. A lot.”  
  
He glances down quickly, at the bulge in his own pants, his face heating up again at the mere thought of what they had been about to do.  
  
“So, does that mean we can do it again?” Giampaolo asks slowly, reaching out to take Riccardo’s hand in his own, “The kissing, I mean. The rest can wait, until you’re comfortable with it.”  
  
“Sure,” Riccardo answers with a smile, turning his gaze to their intertwined fingers, admiring how well their hands fit together, like they were made for it.  
  
On his 16th birthday, Riccardo falls a little bit in love.  
  
  
  
On his 20th birthday, Riccardo helps Giampaolo to move into his new apartment.  
  
Riccardo has not complained even once that Giampaolo is leaving Atalanta, because they had both known this would happen eventually: it had only been a matter of time before one of them would receive an offer they could not refuse and they would have to learn to be apart from each other.  
  
But Florence is a long trip away from Bergamo and Riccardo feels like crying when they are finally done carrying all the boxes into the apartment that feels far too big for Giampaolo alone.  
  
“You’ll call me every day, right?” Riccardo asks for the third time that day as they go through the boxes of kitchen equipment, “Tell me how you’re settling, how your new team is – things like that.”  
  
“I’ll try,” Giampaolo promises for the third time that day – Riccardo wonders when he had stopped with the original “of course I will” – smiling at Riccardo reassuringly over the piles of plates and cups his mother had packed for him.  
  
Riccardo looks down at the box he is emptying – kettles and frying pans – trying to hide the traitorous tears that are stinging his eyes. This is Giampaolo’s big chance, Riccardo should be happy for him instead of wallowing in self pity.  
  
But despite Riccardo’s best efforts, Giampaolo notices – of course he notices – and walks over to him, pulls him into a tight hug, kisses his hair.  
  
“It’s not the end of the world,” he tells Riccardo, who sniffles and buries his face against his shoulder, “We’ll visit each other, and we’ll play against each other, and you can call me whenever you feel like it, I’ll always answer.”  
  
“Even in the middle of the night?” Riccardo asks, his voice muffled against Giampaolo’s shirt.  
  
“Especially in the middle of the night,” Giampaolo assures him resolutely, caressing the back of his neck, until Riccardo lifts his face and Giampaolo can finally kiss him properly.  
  
The kiss tastes like tears, but Riccardo clings to it, attacking Giampaolo’s lips demandingly, like afraid it is going to be the last time he ever gets to do this.  
  
The boxes in the kitchen are forgotten as Giampaolo returns the kiss, tugging on Riccardo’s clothes urgently, the need to feel Riccardo’s skin against his too imminent to ignore any longer.  
  
The moment he gets Riccardo’s jeans and boxers off, Giampaolo takes a hold of his waist and lifts him to sit on the kitchen counter, the ceramic surface feeling cold against his bare buttocks.  
  
Riccardo spreads his legs to allow Giampaolo as close as possible, pulling him into an open-mouthed kiss, their tongues meeting before their lips even touch. Giampaolo’s hands are caressing the insides of his thighs, the touch driving Riccardo mad with suppressed arousal.  
  
“When’re you leaving, again?” Giampaolo asks against his lips, one of his hands finally moving up Riccardo’s leg, caressing his balls gently.  
  
“I’m taking the last train to Milan,” Riccardo grits out, his voice hitching when Giampaolo grasps his cock into a loose hold, “We’ve got a few more hours.”  
  
“Good, because I intend to fuck you on every surface of this place before you leave,” Giampaolo tells him with a dangerous smirk, his jerks on Riccardo’s cock too slow to ease his terrible yearning, “That way I’ll remember you even when you’re gone.”  
  
He slides down Riccardo’s body then, until his face is level with Riccardo’s crotch, his cool breath teasing Riccardo’s already aching erection.  
  
“Stop teasing me!” Riccardo complains – he refuses to call it whining – his hands finding Giampaolo’s hair, messing up the dark locks insistently.  
  
Giampaolo presses a kiss against his thigh first, keeping a firm hold on his leg to keep him from squirming under his mouth. He licks a long line of saliva on the inside of Riccardo’s thigh, so close to his cock that Riccardo can practically feel his breath on him.  
  
“I’ll miss you, Riccardo,” Giampaolo whispers against his skin, dropping lazy kisses around his crotch, careful not to touch his cock that is growing harder by the second in Giampaolo’s loose hold, “I love you, and I’ll miss you so, so much.”  
  
Riccardo opens his mouth to answer, but Giampaolo gives him no time for that as he wraps his lips around the tip of Riccardo’s cock, his tongue circling the heated flesh.  
  
Riccardo moans out loud and throws his head back, knocking it on the corner of the kitchen cabinet, but the pain does not register in his mind because his whole attention is centred around Giampaolo’s mouth on him, sucking on his cock while his jerks on his length grow stronger.  
  
Riccardo tries to tell Giampaolo he is about to come, but an embarrassing whimper is the only sound that falls from his mouth as he reaches his climax, his fingers tugging on Giampaolo’s hair and his hips bucking into his mouth unconsciously.  
  
Giampaolo swallows his come without complaint, licking him until he grows soft in his hold.  
  
“I’ll miss you too,” Riccardo admits when Giampaolo finally stands up and wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him into a tight hug against his chest, “I’ll miss you every second we have to spend apart.”  
  
“I know,” Giampaolo answers and kisses him again, just a simple press of lips against Riccardo’s, “And I’m giving you ten minutes for recuperation before we move to the living room. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was gonna fuck you until you miss your train. And then some.”  
  
On his 20th birthday, Riccardo learns that letting someone go is not the same as losing them.  
  
  
  
On his 24th birthday, Riccardo refuses to talk to Giampaolo.  
  
They have just played an away match in Milan, so it would not have been such a big stretch to drive to Genoa and meet Giampaolo. But the wound is too fresh, the pain too intense to forget it just yet.  
  
He had known Giampaolo was leaving Fiorentina – he could get no playing time there, so leaving was the only sensible solution – but knowing is different from actually seeing him wearing the wrong colours, playing for the wrong team.  
  
This is the first time they are apart after that horrible half a year when Giampaolo left Atalanta and Riccardo had to manage on his own, before he could follow Giampaolo to Florence.  
  
They are older now, so they should be able to handle the separation better. But despite his better judgement, Riccardo feels betrayed and abandoned, and seeing Giampaolo would only make the feelings worse.  
  
So he travels back to Florence with his team, accepts their birthday wishes, jokes around with Gila and Gobbi as if nothing was wrong.  
  
Giampaolo tries to call him just when he makes it home, a familiar ringtone set specifically for him jingling through the dark apartment. Riccardo does not pick up.  
  
Riccardo sets his phone on the nightstand as he curls up in bed, in the sheets where he imagines he can still smell Giampaolo.  
  
Giampaolo does not try to call again that night.  
  
On his 24th birthday, Riccardo feels more alone than he has ever felt in his entire life.  
  
  
  
On his 27th birthday, Riccardo finds Giampaolo waiting at his door.  
  
Riccardo comes back from training – tired and frustrated, same as every other day lately – and Giampaolo is standing on the front step, arms wrapped around himself, wearing a coat that looks far too thin for the cold January weather.  
  
“Happy birthday,” he says softly, although his hesitant tone makes the sentence seem like a question, “You’re late, I thought I took a day off from training for nothing.”  
  
“You’re not supposed to skip training for me,” Riccardo berates him but hurries to open the door and let Giampaolo in nonetheless, “What did you even tell them? That you’re sick? This is why you’re not starting for them anymore.”  
  
“Family emergency,” Giampaolo replies as he walks in and wraps his arms around Riccardo’s waist the moment the door closes behind them, “I missed you, so it was actually more for myself than for you.”  
  
Riccardo wants to argue, because he knows Giampaolo has been worried about him since the autumn, when Riccardo had his falling-out with the Fiorentina management and was stripped of the captaincy. Giampaolo  _knows_  things are bad for him, even if Riccardo has never admitted it out loud.  
  
Giampaolo stops him from saying anything by pulling him into a kiss that is familiar as ever, despite the long periods of separation their careers have put them through.  
  
“I missed you too, you moron,” Riccardo tells him gently, smiling against his lips before catching them in another kiss, sucking on Giampaolo’s lower lip demandingly until Giampaolo opens his mouth and lets him deepen the kiss.  
  
Giampaolo’s hands slip down from his waist to grip his ass possessively, pulling their crotches tightly against each other. Riccardo hums his approval into the kiss, tugging on Giampaolo’s short hair with both hands, making sure he does not try to pull away from the kiss.  
  
They do not make it to the bed – they do not even make it to the living room couch.  
  
Instead, Giampaolo undresses Riccardo right there in the hallway, hurriedly pushing off his coat and the shirt underneath before moving on to his jeans, opening the fly and crouching on the floor to pull them down his legs, leaving him only in his boxers.  
  
Riccardo follows his lead, dropping down to his knees and pulling Giampaolo into another kiss. He only manages to remove Giampaolo’s coat, though, before Giampaolo pushes him down to the floor, the rough surface of the carpet scraping his back not even registering in Riccardo’s mind.  
  
“God, you’re beautiful,” Giampaolo breathes out against his lips, hands sliding down Riccardo’s torso until he finds the waistband of his boxers and pushes them down. Riccardo lifts his hips obediently to get them off completely.  
  
Giampaolo wastes no time as he urges Riccardo to spread his legs, kneeling between his thighs, hands finding his buttocks again, fondling them heavily. He has a bottle of lubricant stashed in his coat pocket – Riccardo has to laugh at that, because obviously Giampaolo had come prepared.  
  
“Shut up, I’m not wasting time when I need to be back at training tomorrow morning,” Giampaolo grins at him, one hand still rubbing his buttock while the other slips between his legs, slicked fingers teasing his entrance.  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” Riccardo retorts innocently, sticking his tongue out playfully only for Giampaolo to catch it with his own, licking his way back into Riccardo’s mouth. He pushes the first finger through Riccardo’s entrance without breaking the kiss, muffling the first sounds of discomfort.  
  
The stretching hurts much more than Riccardo remembered, and he realizes with a start it has been months since Giampaolo last fucked him – they have other ways to keep each other satisfied, ways that are less likely to ruin Riccardo’s training prowess.  
  
But this time he wants Giampaolo inside him, and Giampaolo  _needs_  to be inside him, so Riccardo does not complain even though the second finger comes a bit too fast, his insides clenching around the digit painfully.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Giampaolo whispers, now kissing Riccardo’s neck soothingly, waiting for Riccardo to adjust to the fingers inside him, “It’s been too long – I know I’m moving too fast. I’m sorry, Riccardo.”  
  
Riccardo can feel Giampaolo’s body shaking against him with suppressed arousal, but his hand remains unmoving, all his concentration fixed on not hurting Riccardo.  
  
“I’m fine,” Riccardo finally tells him, raising one hand to caress the back of Giampaolo’s neck for extra reassurance. He resists the urge to wriggle his hips against Giampaolo, well aware it would only make it harder for Giampaolo to go slow.  
  
Giampaolo raises his head just enough to see his face, searching for deceit and finding none. So he starts moving his fingers carefully, twisting them around Riccardo’s hole, and then the familiar waves of pleasure wash through Riccardo’s body as Giampaolo finds his prostate.  
  
“Fuck, that’s good,” Riccardo moans out, rolling his head back to expose more of his neck to Giampaolo who takes the cue and latches his lips onto his skin, sucking on his pulse point hungrily while he keeps rubbing Riccardo’s prostate.  
  
By the time Giampaolo pulls his fingers out and opens the fly of his own jeans, neither of them is thinking of going slow anymore. Riccardo sits up, wrapping his legs firmly around Giampaolo’s hips, and pushes his jeans and boxers just low enough that he can pull his cock out.  
  
“Make me feel it – make me  _scream_ ,” Riccardo says huskily as he strokes lube over Giampaolo’s cock with both hands, and then he leans back again, lifting his hips so that Giampaolo can press his tip against his entrance.  
  
The moan gets stuck in his throat when Giampaolo thrusts into him, only a constrained whimper escaping his lips.  
  
The first few thrusts are slow and careful, but then Riccardo grasps for Giampaolo’s hair and urges him to lean down, kiss him again, and that does it – Giampaolo attacks his lips hungrily, his movements growing harder, faster, with each new thrust.  
  
The carpet is scratching Riccardo’s back, but the dull pain is nothing compared to the pleasure coursing through his body as Giampaolo’s cock brushes against his prostate with almost every thrust that are just the right depth, learned from years of practice.  
  
Riccardo comes without touching himself, his cock pressed between their bellies receiving just enough pressure from Giampaolo’s movements. He does not scream, but it is mostly because Giampaolo does not release his lips, swallowing every sound Riccardo is trying to make.  
  
Giampaolo breaks the kiss only when he halts his movements, a breathy moan falling from his lips, shivers running through his body and into Riccardo’s, and then there is the familiar feeling of seed rushing into him.  
  
“You should get naked,” Riccardo tells Giampaolo with an affectionate smile when they stand up – Riccardo’s legs almost give out under him – and head towards the bedroom, “It’ll make the second round much easier.”  
  
Giampaolo laughs gruffly and then he reaches out to touch Riccardo’s back. The sudden pain takes Riccardo by surprise, the earlier rug burns having escaped his mind completely.  
  
“You sure you’re feeling up to it?” Giampaolo asks quietly, pressing a soothing kiss on Riccardo’s shoulder, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re just so damn hard to resist.”  
  
“I’ll be fine,” Riccardo assures him, turning around to face Giampaolo and wrapping his arms around his neck, “At least I’ll have something to remember you by.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s how I want you to remember me,” Giampaolo retorts, but he is grinning dangerously now, his hands cupping Riccardo’s bare ass again, obviously ready to take up Riccardo’s challenge.  
  
On his 27th birthday, Riccardo realizes feeling connected does not require constant declarations of love – sometimes rug burns and hickeys in uncomfortable places are more than enough.  
  
  
  
On his 30th birthday, Riccardo wakes up in Giampaolo’s arms.  
  
They are in Milanello and it is early – far too early for either of them to be awake yet – but still Giampaolo smiles at Riccardo, wide awake, when the captain turns his head to look at him over his shoulder.  
  
“Happy birthday, Riccardo,” he whispers and drops a playful kiss on his lips.  
  
“Were you watching me sleep?” Riccardo grumbles, his eyes feeling droopy and his mind groggy, his body obviously not quite ready to wake up yet.  
  
“I may have?” Giampaolo answers with a chuckle, tightening his hold on Riccardo’s waist and pulling him closer to his chest, “Or maybe I just couldn’t sleep because you were snoring.”  
  
“I never snore,” Riccardo mumbles defiantly. He closes his eyes again and looks for Giampaolo’s hand with his own, pulling it from his waist up to his lips, kissing his palm affectionately, “And even if I did, you should be used to it by now.”  
  
“You caught me,” Giampaolo laughs against his neck, dropping lazy kisses on his skin, the familiar touches slowly lulling Riccardo back into a gentle slumber, “Just sleep, we’ve still got a few hours before breakfast. I’ll be right here, watching over you.”  
  
Riccardo wants to answer, tell Giampaolo he loves him, but he slips back into dreamlands before he can even open his mouth, surrounded by Giampaolo’s safe warmth.  
  
On his 30th birthday, Riccardo knows they will be forever, no matter where they may end up in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Years of the story:  
> \- 2001: Monto and Pazzo were both playing for the Atalanta junior team (Pazzo had joined the team in 1999).  
> \- 2005: Pazzo transferred to Fiorentina in January (don’t know the date, so lets just assume the moving took place on the 18th), while Monto did the same in the following summer.  
> \- 2009: Pazzo transferred to Sampdoria in January and played his first match (against Palermo) on Monto’s birthday. Fiorentina was playing an away match against Milan during the same weekend.  
> \- 2012: Monto had refused to renew his contract at Fiorentina the previous autumn and because of that he was in really bad terms with both the club management and the fans. He moved to Milan the next summer on a free transfer. Pazzo transferred there from Inter at the same time, after he had been left out of the squad for the summer training camp.  
> \- 2015: Look at me ignoring today’s match completely! It did not happen, I refuse to acknowledge it, okay? *crawls into a corner and makes angry kitty noises*
> 
> Comments would be lovely!


End file.
